


disappear here

by orphan_account



Category: Twenty One Pilots
Genre: Alternate Universe, Drug Addiction, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-09
Updated: 2016-10-09
Packaged: 2018-08-20 07:56:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8242006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Two bodies, one bed, and pure bliss.





	

The couch sticks to his skin and he groans. The air in the room is hot and stuffy. The alarm in his room started beeping twenty minutes ago but he can’t bring himself to turn it off.  He stays staring at the ceiling as his head pounds.

He feels like shit.

It takes all the strength he has to roll off the couch and turn off the alarm. Then he drags himself over to the bathroom. The bright light makes his eyes squint. His reflection in the mirror is pale and sweaty. He feels like his skin will slip off his bones.

He makes his way back to the couch, tripping over a pile of clothes as he does so. He’d clean the floor but that would mean he’d have to clean the kitchen and the bathroom too.

He falls back onto the couch. He picks up his supplies. He sticks the needle into his arm. He floats away.

 

* * *

 

They meet at a party.

The house is crowded, the music is loud, and no amount of alcohol will wash away the emptiness that he feels inside. The friends that he came with have wandered off and he’s walked throughout the house too many times to count. He gives up and sits on a chair at the kitchen table and closes his eyes.

“Hey,” a voice chimes in, and suddenly there’s a hand pushing him. He opens his eyes.

“You look fucking bored,” the boy standing in front of him states.

“Alcohol isn’t that fun, I guess.”

The boy laughs. “I’ve got something better if you want,” he says, and he’s reaching out his hand to pull him off the chair. He follows him through the living room and down some stairs into the basement and then into a small room. There are not many people in here but the ones that are sit on a mattress. Some are leaning against the wall with their eyes closed. He watches as the boy sits and grabs a spoon and a belt and _oh_ he knows what’s going on.

The boy motions for him to sit down next to him but he can’t get his feet to work. He thinks of excuses; _I think I hear my friends calling for me_ or _You know what I’m actually pretty hungry and I think I’m going to get some more chips_ or even _Sorry man but I don’t do heroin_ but his mouth feels just as broken as his feet and he can’t get himself to say anything.

“Come on, man, it’ll feel good. Trust me,” the boy breathes.

He doesn’t know what good feels like anymore. He doesn’t know what anything feels like anymore. That part of his brain is malfunctioning and he doesn’t think it will ever be able to be fixed.

He sits down next to the boy and winces when the needle bites into his skin.

He has spent too many years stuck between the living and the dead. He has closed his eyes and wanted to fade away but didn’t have the urge to make it permanent. He has wished and prayed that he lived a life that was different than the life that he was living but he didn’t have the guts to pack everything up and leave. He has spent too many times driving in his car wishing that he’d get into an accident serious enough to put him in the hospital but minor enough that he survives.

It’s too exhausting to be too weak to get out of bed in the morning but still have the strength to recognize that he needs to.

He wants a fucking break.

He thinks that he’s found it.

The syringe isn’t full of his blood. It’s full of the emptiness that he feels in his brain. It’s full of the numbness that he feels in his body.

“Holy fuck,” he slurs, and he’s swaying and watching as the boy fills the syringe with his own blood. The boy sits back against the wall and he can’t help but rest his head on the boy’s shoulders.

 

* * *

 

They become the perfect threesome; him, his boy, and their drug.

It used to drive him insane to be in his room all day. His body would itch with the desire to get outside and yet his brain would scream at the fact of actually moving. Going outside meant trying to find a pair of clean clothes in a mess of two week old dirty piles. It meant having to take a shower because his hair is too greasy. It meant counting the hours until he could get back to his bed.

Now his body craves the stillness. They spend hours in bed together just shooting up. He can’t describe the feeling that he feels because he didn’t even know it existed. They lie there together with their heads touching and their hands connected and their covered windows keeping away the problems and the world.

It’s just the three of them. It’s perfect.

Until it isn’t.

Slowly the fights arise. Suddenly it burns when he touches the other boy’s skin.

“I got it the last time,” the other boy whines and just the sound of his voice makes his head start to pound.

“You’ve always have more money than me,” he states, and the boy rolls his eyes.

“Don’t fucking do that. The last time I bought it we got more than usual so I spent more than usual.”

“Well than what do you suppose we fucking do?”  The boy question.

“I don’t know. I don’t care. Just fucking get some.”

The boy laughs. “Okay,” he snaps, “hold on while I make it appear out of my ass.”

“Shut up,” he groans, and his stomach feels like it’s going to betray him. He rubs his hands against his face. “I can’t believe you got me into this mess.”

“Yeah you say that every time and yet when we score you can’t take your hands off of it.”

“Fuck off,” he exclaims.

“Fuck you,” the boy says back to him, and he can hear the sound of the door slamming shut.

Hours later he’ll whisper that he’s sorry.

“Me too, baby,” the boy will whisper.

“I picked up another shift at the diner. One of the other cooks is out for the whole week. It should help us for next time.” He says as he kisses the boy’s neck.

It does and the cycle begins. Highs and then lows. Up and then down. I love you and then I hate you. The drug goes in and blood comes out. Rinse. Repeat. It never ends.

“You drive me insane,” he yells, and he throws a cup in anger.

“I’m so fucking sick of you,” the boy replies.

“Well I fucking hate you,” he spits out. He grabs his wallet and leaves the apartment. He has a double shift and he wishes he’d get run over by a car on the way to the diner.

The time goes by slowly. The itching return but it’s not the same as it used to be. Between the heat of his body and the heat of the stove he feels like he’s going to melt. He needs a hit. When his shift is over he tries not to throw up as he races back to his apartment. His hands shake as he unlocks the door.

“Babe?” He calls out. “Good news! I got my paycheck earlier than usual this week. We’re fucking golden.” He tugs off his shoes. “Babe? Where are you?” He asks as he goes to the bedroom.

“Helloooooo? What are you do-“ except that he doesn’t get to finish because his words turn into a scream.

“Babe?” his voice cracks as he makes his way to the bed where the other boy lies. He’s still. His eyes are open and are staring at nothing. His mouth is also open and caked with vomit. There’s some on his shirt. There’s some on the bed.

“No,” he whispers. “Please, god. No.”

His usually warm body is cold. The needle is still in his arm.

His eyes are staring.

They’re _staring._

 

* * *

 

It’s another day. The couch is still sticky against his skin. His stomach growls but he knows there’s barely anything in the fridge to fill it. The alarm in his room goes off and his head pounds.

He groans and drags himself off to his bedroom. It would be easier to just plug the alarm next to the couch but nothing is ever easy for him and if the clock is in the living room then he won’t have a reason to go over to the bed. He can’t pretend that there will be a body waiting for him. The body that got him into this mess and the body that’s keeping him in it. He can’t pretend that the boy will open his brown eyes and give him a smile and show his crooked teeth. He can’t pretend that he’ll be able to trace his finger around the boy’s wrist tattoo and follow the lines that lead to his heart.

Josh can’t sleep in the bed anymore. He feels like he’ll drown in the scent of death. Josh can’t get rid of the bed, either.

He can’t lose his last trace of Tyler.

**Author's Note:**

> "disappear here.  
> the syringe fills with blood.  
> you're a beautiful boy and that's all that matters."  
> bret easton ellis - less than zero
> 
> (I own nothing)


End file.
